Me, Myself & I
by Inks Inc
Summary: His commutation hearing was thundering along before his very eyes. He should be exhilarated, filled with the cautious prospect of life as a free man. He should be basking in the glow of scheme's to plot, millions to make and places to see. So, why was he so torn? Who had he become? Could it be that the most victimised victim of the infamous Caffrey con...was himself? (One-Shot)
The tie felt heavy beneath his slim fingers as he waited. His usually unfaltering suave exterior was fractured as he leant back in conflicting agitation and anticipation. Sweat clung to his forehead, a damp coolness, hidden under a lock of thick, dark hair.

They had already gone through him.

They had already gone through Dianna.

They had already gone through June.

They were in the middle of their interrogation with Jones, and soon… soon it would be Peter in that seat.

What Agent Burke would say, Neal didn't pretend to know. His natural instinct for reading people, for reading with devastating acuity any given situation he found himself in, failed him.

…and he had a sneaking theory as to why.

Closing his eyes with a force that made them water, he tried to push that hypothesis to the back of his mind. He tried with all his might to banish it to the cobwebbed corners of his mind that housed such idiotic ideologies.

The wait continued, as he lolled in the uncomfortably hard plastic chair. His expensive suit creased at the knees as he fidgeted aimlessly.

He had never before been so damn confused.

If he was being honest with himself, totally honest with every fibre of his being, he knew that the reason he couldn't form a cohesive judgement was because he didn't know what _he_ wanted.

To the outside world, he was chomping at the bit. He was a stabled horse that was pressing and pushing at the gate. Neal Caffrey needed to be freed, and that was all that anyone saw. A dangerously intelligent young man with a penchant for a flagrant, unsubstantiated lifestyle, desperate to resume his footloose and fancy free ways.

But that wasn't the whole story.

At the beginning sure, that picture was a clad iron representation of the situation he was in. He considered himself to be a performing lap dog for the feds, who in return got to sleep in the house and go for short, two mile walks.

As time went on however, that all began to slowly, and organically change.

He had never really had roots before. How could he, given the fact he was all but born into a life of secrecy and instability. He had always been a self sufficient child, because really, what choice had he?

He had never learned the comfort that roots could bring. The comfort that a _home_ could provide.

He had subconsciously perhaps, tried to recreate that home based stability he lacked as a child, long into his adulthood.

He had called many places home, and he had decorated them lavishly. His natural affinity for decorative flair coupled with his unrivalled ability to _procure,_ legally and otherwise such fine pieces of art, meant for a lavish abode wherever he set one up.

…and yet he had always felt, as he padded through those impressive halls, as if something was missing. As if there was a glaring oversight he remained ignorant of.

Those feelings were intensified as he began nesting in his loft upon his release from jail. True, the apartment was housed in a magnificent mansion, courtesy of June, but the loft…held something different about it.

It was nowhere near as flagrant as his previous residences, and yet, for the first time, he felt truly at home there.

He didn't feel empty as he splashed art onto a blank canvass. He didn't feel empty when he meandered around with a new book, accompanied with an expensive bottle.

…he felt at home.

But the intelligent part of him knew, that his ability to adapt to this new feeling of belonging, hinged upon the blinking device upon his ankle.

Without it, he knew the lure could prove too much.

He was an addict.

That much he knew.

He craved the excitement and the thrill. The overall target was almost unimportant; it was simply the thrill of the chase that motivated him.

Peter had seen that.

He had seen _him._

He had seen through the audacious stunts, he had seen through the outrageous heists. He had seen them for what they really were.

A coping mechanism.

A way for a brilliant, yet somehow unconventionally motivated, young man to fill a void he, as of then couldn't classify.

As he sat there now, in the federally secure chair, awaiting his fate, he knew he could.

With Kate gone, it was clearer than ever.

The chase was all just a way to protect himself from the fact that he was empty. That he was lonely. Conquest after conquest of beautiful women led him to the conclusion that he was in danger of no longer feeling.

His heart hadn't fluttered since she'd died.

Sure, Rebecca had engaged him, but she had of course transpired to be a raving lunatic.

He smiled wryly.

Just his luck.

The door was opening now, and he watched silently as Jones came out and walked past him with a small smile, and a rather diverted gaze.

Brilliantly blue eyes assessed the retreating suit clad back, and came to the correct conclusion.

He had told them his sentence shouldn't be commuted.

He felt a conflicting facial response of his eyebrows knitting together in a frowning scowl, with the edges of his mouth twitching upwards in a relieved grimace.

Watching Peter stride out of the holding room on command, that was different to his own, and make his way through the glass panelled corridor, his sense of confliction drew.

Suddenly, something slotted into place.

He knew.

In that moment, as he watched the door open and snap close, swallowing Peter up in the depths of the room that lay within, he knew.

The confliction lifted from him, as comprehension set in.

He wanted to be free, but that freedom terrified him. He wanted to be able to go wherever he pleased, whenever he pleased, but he was worried he would never find his way home.

He needed to be his own man again, but he was scared of who that man was.

Was that man going to be the person to strip him of everything he'd achieved? The sense of belonging. The odd, dysfunctional family he'd found himself being a part of?

He didn't trust that man. He wasn't to be relied upon. He went careering after the lure of shiny things, to excite the dullness that would otherwise seep across his brain. What alcoholics and gamblers found in the drink and the game, that man found in the con.

That made that man a danger.

A door squealed open twenty or so minutes later, and an unreadable Peter emerged, taking the stairs that led to his chair based point of contemplation two at a time.

Standing, Neal felt the breath catch in his throat as he looked up at the man that had basically saved him from himself.

Brown eyes fanned over his face, and he realised he probably looked like hell.

A warm hand suddenly found its way onto his shoulder, as a well intentioned mouth opened in preparation.

The young man, dawdling at the crossroads, felt his blood still in his brains as the older man began to speak.

"Neal" Peter murmured with his eyes full of concern and…something else that wasn't definable, "their decision is…"

…

A'N: The ending is up to you. Whether you want Neal to be free or not! This is just a short little one shot that came to me as I was writing a paper. Hope you enjoyed!

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